


Burns Brighter Than the Sun

by Elpie (Horribibble)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blood Magic, Canon-Typical Violence, Captivity, Escape, Falling In Love, Hurt/Comfort, Iron Bull is captured, M/M, Pre-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Protective Iron Bull, Slavery, Tevinter Imperium
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 05:52:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5616142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Horribibble/pseuds/Elpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Each day, the Magister comes to the courtyard and finds some new way to attempt to break him, as if there’s some purpose to testing his endurance. This, too, Bull can endure. It would be a bit easier, of course, if the man didn’t insist on <em>monologuing</em> the entire way through.</p>
<p>Every night, his friend comes to him and tips the saucer against his lips. As time passes, more words pass between them, slow at first, but steady and precious. </p>
<p>Fragile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burns Brighter Than the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> I was prompted for "Adoribull with tears, comfort, and maybe bondage?"
> 
> They didn't specify what kind of bondage. 
> 
> The violence is, I think, non-graphic, but I tagged for it anyway.

It hadn’t been the ideal situation when they’d taken on the job in Tevinter. There had been a whole lot of talking, a few shouting matches, but Krem had  _ insisted  _ that the pay was too good to pass up. They needed the money, and they were near enough to the border that it would be stupid not to hear the client out at least. 

Of all the things that could possibly have gone wrong, they weren’t counting on  _ Bull  _ being the one to get captured. Krem, more likely. Dalish and Skinner, perhaps. 

But not the seven-foot-tall battering ram who  _ laughed  _ when the slavers brandished their weapons. In retrospect, that had been a bit stupid. 

So now here he stands, chained in what ambient noise tells him is a courtyard, the sun beating down on his shoulders. He relies on hearing, taste, and smell because they’ve covered his eyes with an impractically expensive blindfold. 

_ ‘Vints, honestly.  _

He can smell the sea breeze on the air, and the hot stone walling him in, tempered by the thick, cloying scent of hot-weather blooms and fruit, heavy on the branch and lingering on his tongue. This does his empty stomach no favors, but he’s practiced enough at distracting himself. 

Each day, the Magister comes to the courtyard and finds some new way to attempt to break him, as if there’s some purpose to testing his endurance. This, too, Bull can endure. It would be a bit easier, of course, if the man didn’t insist on  _ monologuing  _ the entire way through. 

As if he’s presenting Bull as a sort of sideshow attraction for the educational benefit of his viewers. It doesn’t make a lick of difference. Bull braces himself for the crack of the lash on skin, the blows of a staff, the flaring heat of hostile magic. 

He clenches his teeth and endures it all. 

He waits for the sun to set, and the sky to darken as cool night breezes blow in to kiss his aching flesh. 

He waits for his friend to make his way to the courtyard. 

-

It had started on the second night, the soft crackling shift of careful footfalls on the flagstones as someone made their way towards him in the infinite dark. Immediately, his muscles tensed up, ready for some new punishment. 

But there was no sudden impact or burning pain. 

Against his lips, he felt the cool touch of earthenware—a saucer—and then the sensation of liquid flooding his cracked lips, pooling in his mouth and giving him a brief, blissful moment of relief. 

And then he spat it back out, half reflex and half solid realization that this  _ must  _ be some trick. He expects a blow, a steady stream of Tevene invectives, but instead his ears pick up a muffled grunt. 

“I suppose I should have expected that. You’ve been through enough, and it can only get worse. I know you don’t trust me. You’ve no reason to. But you need to drink if you’re going to survive this.”

Bull listens intently to the sound of the other man’s voice, process the accent—the unique drawl that so smoothly creeps upon natives of Tevinter’s coastal cities. He pays attention to the soft, plaintive tone and listens for the slightest hitch in breathing. 

He listens for a lie. 

But even with the rush and crash of waves in the distance, and the faint  _ chiirichii  _ of the crickets, he can clearly hear the guilt and concern. 

He’s  _ thirsty _ , and despite extensive training encouraging him to resist, to stand tall and never break, he lets his lips fall open again. 

He feels the stranger’s sigh sliding through the night air and savors the sweet taste of water. 

-

And so, in this quiet balance, they continue to exist. 

During the day, Bull is made to stand between the Magister, his slaves, and any guests who come to marvel at the captive oxman. He holds his head high and gives them a proper show, gritting his teeth and refusing to give them the satisfaction of dragging out his cries. 

They beat him, but he remains standing. His legs burn like veilfire, but he  _ will not  _ go to his knees. They take his brace, and his muscles scream in protest, but he does not falter. 

Every night, his friend comes to him and tips the saucer against his lips. As time passes, more words pass between them, slow at first, but steady and precious. He recites his friend’s words like a mantra as he bakes under the harsh Tevene sun. 

When he can get away with it, his friend brings him sweet, ripe fruits, rich with juice and precious energy. Bull catches the flesh between his teeth, savoring the press and gush of flavors familiar and new. 

And then he stills as his friend runs soft fingertips over Bull’s chapped lips to catch the excess and rub away the stains. Bull shuts his eye beneath the blindfold, which grows ever more irritating after days and days soaking up his sweat, despite the damp cloth that refreshes his skin each night.

He basks in the sensation of even this innocent touch. 

It is enough. 

In the morning he will stand again, as if he had never knelt upon the heavy stones of the courtyard, his shoulders sloped in to spare his friend from the chill of the coastal night. 

-

The Magister’s name is Halward. Bull lays curses upon it, over and over, in the quiet of his mind. Imagines killing the man in so many different and colorful ways. 

Bull does not  _ hate  _ because  _ hate  _ is a waste of energy. 

He would just very much like to kill the man. That’s all.

_ “I’m sorry, _ ” His friend whispers. “I wish I could do more.”

But he has already done so much. 

-

A week or two into his imprisonment, the other man had come to him with a set of what felt like heated stones and spent the night pressing them to Bull’s aching muscles, warming and massaging until the points of tension shuddered and released. 

His knee still gives him trouble, but it beats the sheer  _ agony  _ of before. 

His friend spends each evening distracting him from a tediously miserable existence, telling him stories and silly little rhymes. Virtually anything that pops into his head. Anything that isn’t  _ pain _ . 

He asks questions about Bull’s life, and the things that matter to him. He asks for stories about the Chargers, when Bull has the breath for it, and for tales from his childhood. Carefully, he leads him away from the here and now, in his aching, burning skin and into a safe place where the sun was warm but never burning and he could breathe and arch his shoulders without readying himself for a blow. 

It helps. 

But each night he says, “I’m sorry.”

Bull smiles, feeling his lips crack a bit. Even with a reliable source of food and water, the sea breezes and blazing sun  aren’t exactly inclined to leave him with a baby smooth complexion. “For  _ what _ , kid? ‘s not you that chained me up.”

“Nor I who can set you free, it seems. We’re both trapped here.”

“So what have you got to feel sorry for?”

“I can’t... _ heal  _ you.”

“Really? Because it kinda feels like you  _ are _ .”

“Flatterer.”

“I’m an honest guy.” 

Which is ironic, coming from a man who signs his letters  _ Hissrad.  _

-

One night, as the man presses a piece of mango past his teeth, his fingers linger for just a second too long before falling away. The tide continues to rush and crash, and he hears the steady sigh of the other man’s breath. 

He can feel the warmth, still, and he ducks his head just slightly to take those long fingers between his lips, suckling at the lingering taste of nectar and sweat. 

“Don’t.” The man whispers.

“Why not?”

“You shouldn’t do that.” His voice is closer, as if he’s leaning in. 

Bull’s lips curl up at the edges, joyously defiant. “I want to.”

“You shouldn’t trust me.”

"Too late."

"You've no idea who I am."

"You're my friend."

"A friend would get you out of here."

For one brief, wonderful moment, they breathe the same air, warmth circulating in the scant inches between them.

And then the other man is gone. 

-

They skate around the topic of their captor, because that is undeniably what Halward is to both of them, but the certainty of the morning always hangs heavy over them both. Bull is the one who breaks the unspoken rule. 

“You’re frightened of him.”

“No, I...yes.”

“But still you risk helping me.”

The man  _ laughs. _ "Maybe because there's something about you that exceeds even my own narcissistic tendencies. Maybe I've finally come to hate  _ him  _ more than I hate myself."

"You shouldn't."

"If you knew me, you'd hate me, too."

"I already know you. The taste of your sweat, the sound of your voice, the burden you bear."

"You know nothing about me."

"I know enough."

Again, his friend leaves him early in the evening, and Bull is left to regret his own stubborn idea of charm. 

-

It is only a few nights later that the footsteps change, slower, but purposeful. As if even in the darkness, the owner of those feet wants to affect an air of dignity. Bull can hear the rasp of cloth on stone, can smell the sharp metal tang of something that is  _ definitely  _ not fruit. 

His lips pull back from his teeth at the sound of Halward's voice.

“Ox,” He says. 

“Bas,” Bull answers. 

"You are strong, even for an oxman. Please understand that despite our cultural and religious differences, I have grown to respect you. And I do regret having my hand forced in such a way."

Who, exactly, could force a mage at the height of Tevene society into beating Bull over and over for so long that he’s lost his sense of  _ time  _ is a question that must remain unanswered. He hears the man set something on the ground with a hollow clatter, followed by the metallic  _ shing  _ of a blade exiting its sheath. 

Bull growls, feeling it vibrate from his belly and up into his throat. Rage buzzes under his skin, and he rises to tower over his captor. If the man means to slit his throat, he had best believe that Bull will put up a fight. 

But even the steady fire of his rage won’t keep his weakened body from responding to the deadweight of magic dragging him back down. 

“Rest assured, ox. With blood as strong as yours, it will be unnecessary to unburden you of your life. Know that your sacrifice will serve a greater purpose. Your assistance in my son's...persuasion...will be honored."

He grunts when the tourniquet is pulled tight around his arm, and he does not scream when the knife bites into his flesh.

No matter how much he wants to. 

-

That night, his friend does not come. 

-

The next time he hears the blessed pattern of familiar footsteps, they are faster, and his breath is audible even at a distance. The other man gasps and pants, dropping to the ground before Bull with no warning and reaching out to run his warm palms and long fingers over every inch of skin he can reach. 

Like he needs to be certain that Bull is here, and real. He traces over the new wounds and  _ hisses  _ to himself, his fingers tightening even as they shake. 

Bull realizes with a cold, gaping tear forming in his belly that his friend is  _ sobbing.  _

"I'm so sorry." He says, "Maker, if it weren't for me...if I weren't  _ sick _ ."

"There's nothin' wrong with you."

"You don't know who I fucking  **_am_ ** ."

"I know that you're a decent person."

"I'm really not. I could have stopped this. I  _ should _ have stopped this.  _ I should have known. _ "

"You save my life little by little, every night. I don't have to know shit else but what I hear and feel to understand that you are  _ good _ . Please don't fuckin' cry.” Bull takes a deep breath, head bowing to find and press against the other man’s forehead. They thump together a bit harder than he’d hoped for, but he’ll take it. “I can handle everything else, kid. Just don't cry."

There's a soft, wet laugh mixed in with the sobbing. 

"I trust you."

"You shouldn't."

"Too late. I'm stubborn."

The blindfold is pulled away, and Bull comes face to face with an unmistakably high-born mage. His eyes, where they are not smudged with kohl, are rimmed in red. "You're a fool is what you are."

"You're  _ bleeding _ ." It falls out of his mouth before he can stop it, and his friend levels him with a look that tells him it sounded  _ exactly  _ as stupid as he thought. There are so many more things that Bull could concern him with at this very moment, but his focus is turned completely to the bloody mess that’s become of the other man’s arm. 

"You've bled every fucking day for months. I think I'll survive. The question is—do you want to get out of here?" 

In this moment, Bull is proud. 

"Is that a trick question?"

"Because I'm an Altus?"

Bull remembered Krem mentioning something about Alti—or  _ fuckin Alti,  _ as his second was prone to growling—but he won’t waste time sussing out the particulars. He knows that this is the man who has cared for him, who has risked his safety on Bull’s behalf. 

He realizes, with a renewed fury, that this is the son that Halward had meant to  _ persuade  _ with his blood. This boy was  _ afraid  _ of his own father, and for good reason. Still, he had struggled. Fought back. 

Bull shakes his head. "Because you might be an idiot. Untie me, and find me my axe. Unless you don't trust me..."

"I do. Maker help me, you're the only one I do."

"Then let's bust some fuckin' heads."

The mage attacks his bonds with an angry, primal energy that Bull can feel echoing through his skin and into his core. Ordinarily, he’d flinch back, but that same stubborn will propels him forward the moment he is freed. He seizes the smaller man about the shoulders and pulls him into a deep, wet kiss. 

The mage shakes in his hands, staring up at him with something between wonder and miserable disbelief. “You stupid man.”

" _ Stubborn,  _ I told you. The word is  _ stubborn _ . We're going to bandage you up. We're going to get you out. And then you're going to explain some serious shit, kadan."

"Dorian."

"That, too.” He reaches down to cradle the wounded arm and wraps the silk blindfold around to staunch the bleeding. His fingers linger at the edges, rubbing calluses over soft skin.  

"You're insufferable.”

“I’m yours. Let’s kick some ass.”

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts are always open at anabundanceofstilinskis.   
> <3


End file.
